by S. A. Lusher
There was a small part of him, however, a small but extremely powerful component that hid in the darker recesses of his soul, that was just completely out of fucks to give. He watched these people with their happy and normal lives, their jobs and their friends and family. Favorite restaurants and habits and hobbies. The life he'd never found, or perhaps would never be able to find. All he could remember was pressure.
He'd been cooked in for a long time now. Pressure in school, from bullies and bad grades and having to fight for everything. Pressure from the shit jobs he'd taken. Pressure from Security-Investigations, running all-nighter patrols in the most dangerous city streets of Frontier. The way your skin crawled, muscles bunched as you expected an attack from out of nowhere from some fucking kid with a knife or a gun...
How long had he been under pressure?
Perhaps since birth.
And maybe he was just done with it. And he wanted a way out. And this was it.
“This is probably a shitty time to ask, but do you got a girlfriend or anything?” Poet asked suddenly.
Allan was snapped back to the cold reality of the tunnels and the light. “No.”
“Friends?”
“They're all dead.”
He couldn't help but feel that there was some alternative motive to Poet's line of inquiry. “How about before?” he asked.
“I guess you could say I was friends with my team. And I had a girlfriend, up until some months ago,” Allan replied.
“What happened?”
“What's this about?” Allan asked suddenly. “Why are you asking?”
Poet was silent for a moment. Finally, he spoke up. “We had a...psych-eval on you. Based on your own psychological evaluations, as well as...notes, your commanding officer had been keeping on you,” he admitted.
“What...why?”
“Once we realized that it would make the most sense to bring you into the fold of this operation, because of your personal experience with the target, it seemed logical.”
“So what did it say?”
“That you were mentally unstable and they were getting ready to pull you from duty. After you girlfriend broke up with you, you began to withdraw. But there were arguments, I guess. Your commanding officer didn't want to pull you from duty. You were doing your job just too damned good, man...so is it bullshit? Are you unstable? They said you were beginning to show signs of severe depression, PTSD and possibly bi-polar disorder.”
Allan was quiet for a long time, considering the facts. He was silent for so long that Poet spoke up again, maybe out of guilt. “What was her name?”
“Lindsay,” he murmured, almost automatically. “Her name was Lindsay. She was a tech for the base. More of a mechanic, really. She made repairs and ran basic maintenance on the vehicles we used.”
“Jesus, man. Don't give me a report, tell me what she was like.”
“She was short and skinny. She was so into her work, absolutely loved fixing shit, taking it apart and putting it back together. When she wasn't working, she was reading or walking around the city. We went on a lot of walks together. She loved being on top. We had a really good thing going,” Allan replied after some consideration.
“So what happened?”
“Things got difficult. We became distant. I...found the change difficult to deal with, coming to a place like Lindholm after spending my whole life in a place like Frontier. I started taking more dangerous jobs, I was really restless, but I've never been the best in talking about my problems. You know, that old cliché, communication is the foundation of any good relationship. And we weren't just fuck buddies, we had moved in together, shared quarters, I wanted it to work. But she...didn't understand. She'd grown up in Lansing. Had a peaceful, easy life. At least compared to mine. That's what I felt, anyway. She had it easy. Didn't know what it was like getting shot at every other fucking week, worrying about some jerkoff breaking into your house in the middle of the night, car bombs and shooters and...” he trailed off.
“I had a similar problem,” Poet said softly. “Exact same thing, actually. I was married, before I picked up the gun and put on the armor. I did a tour, came back...everything was different. I made it work for a while, but your life does change after you've been out there and people are shooting at you, at for your blood. More and more, I found she just didn't get it, but the guys and girls I served with...they got it, because they were there.”
“Yeah...exactly.”
“We divorced about two years after that little change occurred. She was part of my old life, and I couldn't go back to it. I gave myself full time to this clusterfuck of a job. Hey, if, somehow, you get out of this alive, you should sign up for Spec Ops,” Poet said.
“You think they'd take me?”
“Well, you're a little nuts...but they say you've gotta be nuts to do this job, so maybe. Ah, look, here we are.”
Poet led Allan down a side tunnel that seemed to end in nothing. After a bit of searching, they released a hidden panel and opened up a secret door. After another bit of navigation, they found the elevator and rode it down. They made the trip in silence, having run out of things to say. Allan felt a little better. It felt good to talk about Lindsay. After they'd broken up, she'd transferred to another base, just left him behind.
It had been for the best.
Poet went through the procedure once they got down there. He activated the Destabilizer and they began to head back up.
“Once we get to the surface, we can contact Montgomery and make sure everything's gone well on her end...then we see about saving as many as we can,” Poet said grimly.
Allan nodded, saying nothing.
Chapter 15
–On the Run–
“Come on, Montgomery, don't do this to me,” Poet muttered.
They were hanging out in the topside shed, waiting for the apocalypse to begin. Allan hovered by the door, not yet opening it, wishing he had a window to look out of. He kept waiting for something to happen, an earthquake maybe, anything to indicate that they had done their job and that Montgomery had held up her end of the bargain.
But there was radio silence from her and anyone on the Special Operations frequency. It was filling the cramped interior of the shed with tension.
“Well, shit,” Poet said finally. “I think we might be on our own. Either something's interfering with the radio or...I don't know, maybe our secret is out. Either way, there should have been a noticeable reaction by now. Come on, we need to get moving. She told me the final code, just in case something went wrong.”
“I'm ready,” Allan replied.
They opened the door and stepped back out into the sunlight, which was now considerably brighter. The city street was much more populated now and for a second, Allan froze, unable to stop staring at the dozens of people coming and going. Even if, somehow, they managed to get some kind of warning out, how many would be left behind? Allan shook his head, making himself focus, forget the horror of what they were doing.
No choice. There was no choice in the matter.
That's what he kept telling himself.
“What's happened to Montgomery?” he asked quietly as they began retracing their steps back to the starport.
“I don't know,” Poet muttered. “Maybe bad weather where she is or something in the city is interfering.” It sounded like bullshit, but Allan didn't say anything. He just kept walking through the awful sunshine.
They'd made it about a dozen feet when Allan felt something, almost like someone had jabbed an icy needle into the back of his neck and he stopped, turned around and scanned the area. Almost like a Jungian image, what he saw immediately registered to his mind, probably faster than his conscious brain could even realize.
The killer was right here, right now, just across the street.
“Oh fuck me,” Allan moaned sickly, his stomach twinging in fear, his entire body going through a shudder like someone had walked over his grave.
Probably because he was staring at h
is grave right now.
It was eight feet tall and wore black armor.
“Run. Run,” Poet snapped.
They ran. Allan didn't look back, he simply started pounding pavement. In his frenzied terror, somehow he remembered the way back to the starport. They'd made it a block when something immense flew directly in front of them. Allan stared in stark disbelief as a car smashed into the building to the right.
“Did he just throw a fucking car at us?!” Allan cried.
“Shit, this isn't working, come on!” Poet snapped.
Allan began to question him, then saw that he was getting into a nearby car still on the road. He tossed one worried glance at the killer, who was now advancing across the street, and almost tore the passenger side door off trying to get in.
“You know these things are hard as a shit to get going if you don't have the ignition sequence, right?” Allan asked.
Poet was working at the control panel built into the dash. “I didn't get into Spec Ops for nothing,” he replied. Suddenly, the car kicked to he life and he sat up.
“Teach me how to do that,” Allan said.
Poet laughed, threw the car into drive and sped off. “I'm a little surprised you haven't picked it up by now, considering all your SI time-oh shit!”
Both of them grunted in surprise as the entire frame of the vehicle shuddered. Allan looked back and saw that the killer was climbing up the back, armored hands tearing holes in the frame of the vehicle.
“You have got to be shitting me,” Allan groaned.
“Hold on,” Poet replied.
The car suddenly veered to the right, smashing through a few posts that were displaying holographic messages, ads or valuable information, Allan had never paid enough attention in his life to know which, then shot back to the left. The back of the vehicle swung out from behind them, due to the additional however many hundreds of pounds the killer weighed, and they did a complete three sixty before continuing to rush down the road.
“Shit,” Allan said through clenched teeth, hands digging into whatever he could find, “is there any way you could not do that again?” His stomach felt like it was trying to escape via his throat.
Poet laughed. “No promises.” He glanced back. “Fuck, he's still there.”
Abruptly, there was the sound of rending metal and sunlight poured into the interior. Fresh air blew past them as Allan realized all at once that the killer had torn the entire roof of the vehicle off. He began feeling for some kind of weapon, anything, as he glanced back and saw that the killer was now reaching for him.
“Shit...shit!” he cried.
His hand fell on the pistol with the nanotech. He still had it. Allan tore it free from its holster, took aim and fired once. The round hit the killer directly in the faceplate. There was a curious white spark that was not quite a spark and immediately the killer went limp and fell back off the car and onto the road, rolling a few times.
“Guess it still works,” he muttered.
“Good thing we recovered the spare bullets,” Poet said. “Look, there's the starport. We can get the fuck out of here and maybe contact Montgomery. Either way, we're heading for the third destabilizer.” He twisted the wheel around and brought what was left of the vehicle straight up to the gate they had passed through less than an hour ago.
“Come on,” Poet said, hopping out.
“Hold it!”
Both men froze instinctively, but relaxed when they saw it was merely a trio of security personnel for the airport. “Identify yourselves,” one of them demanded.
“Captain Henderson and Captain Richards. We're with Special Operations and right now we need you to get the fuck out of the way,” Poet replied.
Allan glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes widened and he felt sick, hot terror shot through him as he spied the lumbering figure of the killer.
“He's back up,” Allan said.
“Who's back up...who the fuck is that? What is that?!” the officer in charge cried.
“Evacuate the area right now!” Poet snapped. “Allan, shoot him!”
Allan took aim. He didn't have long, the killer was really picking up speed, hastily closing the gap between them. Allan fired. The shot missed by inches as the killer dodged, then crashed into the group of them like a missile.
“Go!” Poet screamed.
The killer grabbed the head of the nearest officer and crushed it like a grape, spraying the others with an awful mixture of gray-and-red gore. The two remaining officers took a few steps back and opened fire. Allan leveled his pistol at the killer, who suddenly turned and punched him in the chestplate so hard that it cracked even further. The force of the punch picked him up and sent him flying several feet back.
“Allan!” Poet cried, making for him.
He made it took steps, then the killer grabbed his arm. Completely ignoring the hail of gunfire, the killer reached out and gripped Poet's right wrist. Bringing down his other hand in a sharp, chopping motion, the killer completely severed Poet's arm up to the elbow. Allan coughed violently as he took aim a second time with his pistol and fired. This time the round hit the killer in the chest. He immediately went limp.
“Run!” Allan screamed, groaning as he climbed to his feet and rushed over to Poet. “Get the fuck out of here! Now!”
He grabbed Poet and hauled him to his feet. Poet's remaining hand was over the stump of his arm, which spurted blood through his fingers. Poet muttered incoherently as they rushed across the landing pads. Allan felt the burning urge to stop and apply at least some medical aid, but he tossed a quick glance behind him and saw that the killer was already stirring. There was no time. There was never any time, it seemed.
They reached the back of the ship. Poet was sluggishly trying to get his medical kit out. The back ramp, mercifully, was still open. They stumbled up it. As soon as they were clear, Allan smashed the close button and screamed for the pilot to take off. Immediately, the ship began to ascend. Dropping to his knees, Allan grabbed the medical kit out of Poet's hands, tore it open, grabbed a coagulant, ripped the top off and poured the powder over his stump.
“I think it's too late,” Poet groaned. Allan began to respond, to say something cliché that people always say in hopeless situations, but Poet's remaining hand shot out and gripped Allan's shoulder. “Get to the last destabilizer. All the information is in my database. Pull it, look at the information. The code is in my comms catalog with Montgomery, the location is in my navigational database. Get...the job...done...”
His hand fell away and all at once, Allan realized the man was dead.
Which meant that he was likely the last one who knew about this plan, about their goal and the threat, because there was a good chance that Montgomery and the rest of the Special Operations personnel were dead as well.
Feeling the press of time, he worked quickly, relieving Poet's central database from his suit and plugging it into his own. He began to stand, then remembered something, stopped and grabbed Poet's pistol. Extracting the magazine, he pocketed it and stood. Hurriedly, he made his way to the cockpit and closed the door behind him, leaning against one of the walls. He activated Poet's database and began going through it.
“Where are we going?” the pilot asked.
“Hold on,” Allan replied.
“We've got a contact, coming up on us fast, an intercept course,” the pilot said.
Allan felt a stab of fear and shifted his focus to the navigational core. After a moment, he had the data he was looking for. He fed the coordinates to the pilot, who made the appropriate corrections. Allan glanced over the instrumentation panels.
“How long until we get there?” he asked.
“It's about an hour's flight,” the pilot replied.
“Shit...what's the situation with the pursuer?”
“Whoever he is, he's on an intercept course. We'll be in weapon's range in about thirty seconds. And yeah, we're maxed out for speed.”
“Fuck, can we fight him?”
“Shit, shit...” Allan considered it for a moment. “Wait, this cockpit is an escape pod, right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Can you make it so that we eject and the rest of the ship smashes right into that fucker?”
There was a brief pause as the pilot considered this. “Yes. We can do that. Obviously we won't be able to fly anymore.”
“All right, find the nearest inhabited structure and make for it. Then do what you need to do,” Allan replied.
“You got it, boss,” the pilot muttered.
Allan hesitated for a moment. Here was a man who hadn't been briefed on anything, who had no idea the implications of what they were doing, who was laying his life on the line. All of it without question.
“Thank you,” Allan said quietly.
The pilot grunted as he worked in response. Allan felt a wave of lethargy wash over him. He didn't have the time or inclination to explain the situation to the man. There was nowhere to sit, unfortunately. Which wasn't good, because they were about to-
“Shit,” the pilot muttered as gunfire raked across the hull, racking the interior will dull, hollow thuds. Allan decided to sit on the floor.
He put his back to the bulkhead with the door in it and slid down to the floor. The jump ship took a dive, then twisted to the left, then climbed for altitude. Allan looked down, then closed his eyes, trying to ignore the bumps and shudders. He waited, seconds ticking by, listening to the pilot mutter to himself, making calculations.
When it happened, it happened fast.
There was a sharp metallic echo that tore through the ship, followed by an immense silence as the engines cut out and then disappeared. Allan felt his stomach break free from its moorings as the cockpit entered free fall.
“Did it work?” Allan asked.
The pilot began to respond, but was interrupted by a not-so-distant rumble. “Yep, whoever was in that ship is fucking dust now,” he replied, chuckling grimly.